Better Late Than Never
by Ludi
Summary: Rogue and Remy are holding their engagement party, which means Rogue is attempting to cook, Remy is attempting not to comment on it, and the two generally can't keep their hands off each other. Sexy fluff, taking place right before the events of MMX #6.


**Disclaimer:** These characters belong to Marvel, and I have nothing to do with Marvel.

**Rating:** Rated T for a little bit of sexy stuff.

**Author notes: **This short ficlet is a birthday present for the lovely **lifeseverchanging**, who's the sweetest, most generous lady I know! Have a wonderful birthday, dear!

It takes place right before the events of _Mr & Mrs X_ #6.

Please read, review and enjoy!

-Ludi x

**21 Feb 2019 - **edited to add cats! I also added lyrics to the song Rogue hums, which was chosen by **lifeseverchanging** herself! Lyrics from _1000 Years_ by Christina Perri.

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**\- Better Late Than Never -**

"Anna-Marie LeBeau, you are in soooo much trouble right about now!"

I barely stop to muse on the novelty of hearing those names strung out together under my breath, distracted instead by the elegantly-constructed canapés, all lined up neatly on their tray, in the fridge.

Darn that Cajun and his culinary prowess! Any woman would say they'd made one helluva catch, having managed to snare herself such a smart, sexy, gorgeous fella, who also happens to be a genius in the kitchen, but… Right now, starin' at those delicious-looking little puff pastries, I'm only feeling one thing.

Inadequate.

"Ya sure you don't want me t'make 'em?" he'd asked me earlier on, when I'd insisted on contributing my own culinary efforts to our housewarming/engagement/wedding party. I'd snatched the recipe to my chest and glowered at him.

"What? You suggestin' I can't cook?"

I hadn't meant to snap, but sometimes my insecurities can't help but bleed out. It's been a running joke ever since I can remember that he's the chef and I'm very firmly the assistant; but today is _our_ day, and I'm determined to make the effort, no matter what.

Except how can I even hope to make anything half as good as _this_?

I shut the fridge, stare at the clock on the wall, and then at the ingredients gathered together on the worktop. It's four in the afternoon, and I don't gotta lotta time to get this done. Hell, I'm not even outta my PJ's yet! _Entirely the Cajun's fault_, I huff to myself, as I snap open the bag of flour and move over to the weighing scales. Most mornings have now become pleasurable distractions, which I ain't exactly gonna complain about… but catering to my husband's expansive appetite sometimes makes it _real_ hard to get anythin' done. Which, while pleasant, just isn't any help when it comes to moments like _this_.

And I'll tell you what else isn't any help – wearing this stupid, chafin' collar, and the excruciatin' headaches it gives me.

I sigh, bring up the recipe on my tablet, and set it on the stand.

"Okay," I breathe, cracking my knuckles. "All right. Three hours to go. This should be a breeze!"

Gawd, I'm psychin' myself up like I'm about t'go into battle! Good thing Remy's out buyin' drinks and party supplies, 'cos I'm pretty sure he'd be laughin' at me right now. And just to add insult to injury, Lucifer's up in the beams, staring at me with what I like ta call his 'judging face'. For a few seconds I try to stare him out, which doesn't even nearly work, so I just end up stickin' my tongue out at him.

"Take that, cat!" I shoot in his direction, before picking up the scales and setting them on the opposite worktop, pointedly turnin' my back on him.

"Gal, you are gonna have a wonderful time with your friends!" I tell myself sternly, tryin' to stem the growing panic surging inside me. "So get your ass inta gear!"

I pick up the flour and start to pour.

-oOo-

An hour and a half later I hear the front door open, the sound of Remy kicking off his shoes in the hallway, the rustling of grocery bags.

I bite my lip in apprehension as I hear him call out: "Anna! Y'home?!"

He ain't all in for the 'honey, I'm home' thang, although he's done it once or twice, just to be funny. Lord knows I ain't laughin' at anythin' right now. Here I am, standing over these misshapen canapés, wishing like hell I hadn't gone for the puff pastry variety.

"Of course I'm here!" I snap at him. "I told ya I was cookin', didn't I?!"

I really don't mean to be mean to my darlin' husband, but gosh darn, I just _know_ he's gonna snicker at me when he sees this…

I wait with trepidation during the few seconds it takes for him to get out into the open-plan apartment. As soon as he does, his eyes lock onto me – and there it is. The beginnings of a smug grin, of traitorous laughter. I glare at him and snit: "_Don't. You. Dare_."

Almost immediately he's straightening out that handsome face of his; but there's still just the tiniest hint – just a suggestion – of a smile at the corner of his beautiful lips. I simply ignore him, busying myself clearing away the dirty utensils, as he saunters up and dumps the groceries on the worktop next to me, planting a kiss on my cheekbone.

That alone – and the scent of that sexy aftershave he wears – is almost enough to appease my hideous sense insecurity. He backs away and for a sec I think he's going to sweep past me, but instead he leans in over my other side and murmurs:

"Looks like you've been busy while I been gone, chere."

I shiver all the way up and down my spine as his breath hits that sweet spot behind my ear. Before I can respond he's gone again, opening up the fridge and putting some of his purchases inside. I pout. I know he wants to say something – and now it's startin' to annoy me he ain't sayin' it.

"I know you're just _dyin'_ to comment on my culinary skills, Mr. LeBeau," I snark at him. "So go on. Say it."

There's a pause before I hear him shut the fridge.

"But, chere," he says with just a twist of humour, "you told me _not _to make any comment."

"I said 'don't you dare'," I retort belligerently, sticking the scales back in the cupboard. "I didn't say _what_."

I'm being silly now. This is absolutely the wrong time to be spoilin' for a fight, but my nerves are shot over this party and the sure sense that it's going to be horrible failure. I can tell he's confused at my bad mood; but bless the man, he knows exactly how to diffuse it. I've just turned the faucet on to soak some pots, when his arms encircle me from behind, he presses his lips into my hair and says:

"Everythin's gonna be fine tonight, Anna, chere. And if you're wantin' me to criticise your cookin', you ain't gonna get it. Tonight is gonna be amazin' and nothin's gonna derail it." He vigorously kisses the side of my head before adding: "Ya might wanna take a look at y'self in the mirror before you do anythin' else though, mon amour."

I groan to myself and switch off the faucet, tryin' to ignore the press of his body against the length of my back. I swear, just the _feel_ of him is enough to start workin' me up into a fever again.

"I _knew_ I got flour on my darn face!" I grumble, swiping my forehead with my sleeve, and promptly smudging pastry on my skin instead. It's finally permission for him to laugh, and he does, deep and warm.

"Oh, it ain't just on your face," he says, amused. "Try your hair too."

He plucks a white forelock from my cheek, and out the corner of my eye I see more pastry clinging to the strands.

"Ugh!" I moan. "Does this mean I'm gonna haveta take another shower?!"

I'd only stepped out of one a few hours ago, after the mess Remy had made of me all last night (and this mornin'). I feel him shrug and chuckle lightly.

"It might be a good idea," he agrees.

I sigh and swivel in his arms. Gosh darn, but ain't my husband one of the most beautiful men alive, with his chiselled features and his kissable lips, his auburn hair and those gorgeous dark eyes. There are times, like these, where I just don't know how I managed to snare him. All through those heady early days of our relationship, I was just _waitin'_ for him to figure out this was all a monumental waste of time and run for the hills. But he never did, even years after, when things became even more complicated between us. Instead, _I'd_ been the one to run, intimidated by the sincerity of his love, by the certainty that I would only end up disappointin' him.

_I'm your harbour, _he'd said back then; and I'd believed him, despite my best efforts at denial. But back then, him, and everything that'd come with him, had been a burden. I hadn't been strong enough to carry the weight of his love – I'd been too scared to. Standing here, now, with all that time between the me then and the me now – it seems insane to me that fear and insecurity had ever held me back. I adore this man – more now than I ever did, and I'd adored him the first moment I laid eyes on him. The only thing I have to be thankful for right now is that he was patient enough to wait for me.

I stare up into his eyes… and Gawd, bein' in his arms, I could believe anythin' he wanted me to. My headache's all forgotten.

I pull him down into a passionate kiss, and when it's over I lean back just a little, whisper:

"Ummm… Remy?"

"Uh huh?" he says huskily. His irises are all flared up, and I just _know_ that he's expectin' me to ask him to join me in the shower.

"While I'm cleanin' up… would you mind doin' me a favour?"

There's a lilt to my voice, and while he knows now that I ain't gonna ask him for more sexy times, a small, intrigued little smile begins to play across his lips.

"Sure, chere. What?"

"Well … My canapés could do with some neatenin' up and puttin' in the oven… Think you can do the honours, sugah? Only I'm gonna be tied up for the next half hour or so…"

He laughs, so free and easy, so different from the man I'd rejected all that time ago on Genosha. I still don't have control of my powers, and he still can't touch me without a nullifyin' collar, but… I ain't ever seen this man so happy.

"A'right," he agrees good-naturedly. "I handle the food. You go upstairs and make yourself pretty for our guests, chere."

"Are you implyin'," I murmur silkily, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, which I just know he happens to _love_, "that lookin' pretty is all I'm good for?"

"Oh, chere, I appreciate you lookin' fine more than you know," he grins, inchin' towards another kiss, "but half an hour ain't gonna cut it wit' you. I know how long you like to spend luxuriatin' in the shower."

Oh, he sure does. And he's told me – more than once – just how turned on he gets by all that softly scented skin I spend ages cultivatin' with all those insanely pricey skincare products he gets me.

"Oh, all right," I rejoin sultrily. "I s'ppose I can live with lettin' you do all the hard work. Just this once anyway."

We make out for a few more glorious moments, before I slap his ass and playfully push him away.

"Do me proud, Cajun, and ya might just get extra desserts tonight," I wink at him teasingly, before sidling on over towards the stairs, and grinning stupidly down at him on the way up.

-oOo-

I can hear Anna humming lightly from the bedroom, as I slide the tray of pastries out of the oven and snap the door shut. Placing them aside to cool, I spend the next few minutes rinsing the dirty utensils, loading the dishwasher, and cleaning the surfaces, all the while smiling to myself at the honeyed tones of her voice.

It's an old song, one she'd listened to virtually non-stop during the early days of our relationship. Some might say it weren't never no relationship we'd had back then, but I still think of those days as 'the early days'. Even back then I'd known she was in-love wit' me, and I was in-love wit' her. Took me years of runnin' and self-denial to finally come to terms with that fact… and now we're here. I couldn't be happier.

I dry my hands on the towel and pause a moment as I listen to the song. I remember the last time I ever heard her hum this song. It was in Antarctica, and I can't help the memory from snatchin' right at my heart.

_How to be brave? How can I love when I'm afraid to fall?_

The words have never really left me. Lyrics from a song I only ever knew through her. At the time they'd seemed more than just the words to a tune. They'd seemed honest. Tell ya the truth, sometimes they still do.

I hang up the towel and head up the stairs. When I get to the bedroom, I stop in the doorway, momentarily stunned into paralysis. Anna's at the dresser, puttin' on her earrings, absentmindedly hummin' that tune. That ain't what's stopped me in my tracks. It's the fact that she's wearin' a scandalously short, figure-huggin', sea green sweater dress, out the bottom of which two perfectly-toned and sculpted long legs are peekin' out, before disappearin' again into some thigh-high boots.

_Thigh-highs, huh?_ Fo' sure this femme is tryin' t'tell me somethin'.

Even Oliver and Figaro are admiring her from the bed, Figaro sprawled, diva-like, on the sheets, and Oliver standin' to attention, eyes fixed on her like they're mesmerised too. Hey. I ain't gonna blame 'em for makin' eyes at my girl.

"Hey," I greet her, my voice unconsciously comin' out low and seductive. She stops hummin' and looks over at me with a sweet li'l smile, sayin', "Hey, sugah. My canapés okay?", before turnin' back to the mirror to put on her lipstick.

Oh, the things she's doin' t'me right now, I don't think that lipstick's gonna stay on long. Dieu, but does my wife clean up good. She's the kind of femme who prefers loafin' around in bag pants and zero makeup, but when she wants to make a statement – _hoo!_ – she makes a statement. And my, but is she lookin' delicious right now, in that cute li'l dress and those boots, with her hair all curled and crimped to perfection.

"Oh, your canapés are jes' fine, chere," I reply, pushing myself from the doorframe and into the room. "But y'know what else is fine, right now? My wife."

She smirks and rolls her eyes and retorts: "Well, ya did tell me to look pretty, didn't'cha?"

"I did," I reply, coming up to her and slipping a hand round her waist. "But when I said 'pretty', I wasn't expectin' downright sexy, beb." I twist aside those shiny curls and press an open-mouthed kiss to the nape of her neck, right above the line of the nullifyin' collar. She shudders instinctively.

"Remy," she huffs at me, "we're expectin' guests in less than fifteen minutes. Please don't muss me up before they arrive."

"Pfft," I mutter, before lavishing another kiss on her neck. "No one arrives to a party on time. Relax. We got time."

I wrap both arms round her and press her close, feathering more kisses over her neck and behind her ear. It ain't easy with that darn collar gettin' in the way, but within a few seconds, she's practically melting in my arms.

"Remy," she scolds me half-heartedly, a laugh in her voice. "We spent _all mornin'_ – and afternoon! – in bed, and I_ literally_ just got clean."

I kiss my way back down her neck and to the curve of her shoulder.

"Chere, I don't think you appreciate just what you do t'me," I say. "But if you really want me to back off, I will."

I leave off the kisses, prop my chin on her shoulder, and fix her a woebegone stare in the mirror. Her reflection meets my gaze with an expression that's supposed to be thunderous, but lasts all of two seconds before it breaks out into a gloriously sunny smile.

"Stop it!" she levels at me, giving a nudge of her shoulder, but failing to dislodge me.

"Stop what?" I answer cheekily. "Complimentin' and makin' love to my insanely beautiful wife? 'Cos that ain't gonna happen any time soon."

I disengage one of my arms from round her waist and run my hand back over the angle of her hip and the curve of her ass, before sinking my teeth into the dip between her shoulder and her neck. She lets out a little whimper, and I put my hand back on her hip, push her back against me, letting her feel exactly what she does to me, things no other woman has done. I rub up against that perfect ass of hers; and suddenly she's leaning her head back on my shoulder, offering her lips to me, and I don't waste a moment – I snatch up her mouth without a second thought, tasting the cherry flavour of her lipstick, my hands instinctively moving up to cup her breasts in my palms.

A moan punctuates her kiss; and she twists in my embrace, her arms sliding up round my shoulders and her fingers clutching into my hair, pulling me closer, harder. There are ways I want to get wrapped up in this femme that ain't even possible, but I'll go for the good ol' fashioned nailin'-her-to-the-bed variety – or anywhere else I can get it, to be honest. She breaks the kiss by just a fraction and murmurs in that sweet magnolias accent of hers:

"Dammit, Remy, ya two-bit snake-charmer. How'm I supposed to say no to ya?"

I don't bother tellin' her the obvious – that there ain't no point in her even thinkin' of sayin' no t'me. Not that she wants to. We both know it.

"Oh, you spent enough time sayin' no t'me the past few years, mon coeur," I tease her, leaning in and pressing fleeting kisses on her lips. "I think I paid my penance and then some, where you're concerned. Turn me down now and I might cry."

She scoffs half-heartedly, her fingers grazing my stubble.

"You? Cry? The amount of fun we've had the past few days, I'd think ya had enough t'last a lifetime!"

I laugh huskily, trailing my lips up the line of her jaw and to her ear. Her skin is satiny soft and smells of whatever fancy concoction she's been using in the shower. She's so delicious I think I might just eat her up.

"Chere," I tell her sincerely, "where you're concerned, I can never get enough."

I slip my palms under her butt and lift her up onto the dresser, knocking over a bottle of perfume and a few knickknacks in the process. Usually she'd squawk at me for that, but now she don't. We're both level right now, eye-to-eye, her gorgeous green eyes smoulderin'.

First thing that hooked me, they were – those pretty eyes. They're lookin' at me now like they could light a forest fire or two.

I hold her gaze and put my hands on her knees, slowly sliding them up under the hem of her dress.

"Don't tell me," I murmur sexily, "dat you didn't wear dis here dress wit' me in mind, chere."

Her eyes flicker and she half-whispers back:

"Whatever makes ya think I did, swamp boy?"

I run my hands further up those smooth, toned thighs of hers, taking the dress with me.

"Oh, I _know_ you wore dis for me, Anna-Marie, you tease," I assure her. "And lemme tell you, whatever effect ya wanted t'have on me… it's workin'."

My hands are all the way up to her butt now, the dress riding all the way up to reveal those fine legs of hers, and… merde, but she ain't wearin' the sweetest pair of lacy green panties.

"I don't know what you mean, Cajun," she sasses back sultrily, and I flick my gaze up at hers, lick my lips and flash her my most wolfish smile.

"Sure ya don't, beb."

I sweep my hands back down to her knees and slowly shift her legs apart, inching into the space she leaves behind, shunting her towards me as I do so. I settle between her, and she winds her legs round me like it's second nature.

Mmmm, she feels so good, and we ain't even fuckin' naked yet.

She lays the dirtiest grin on me I've ever seen, winds her fingers into my hair, bites into her lip in the sexiest way she knows how.

"If it's an 'effect' ya want, sugah," she purrs, leaning in so close she's only a breath away from a kiss, "then ya better be ready to take it."

And she works herself up against me so good I let out a groan, and so help me God I can't wait a moment longer – I lock lips wit' her again, and this time our kiss is hot and passionate and fierce. At least now we ain't makin' no pretence of how much we want each other – she's already rippin' my shirt off, and I'm workin' those panties off her legs and flingin' them aside, and—

The fuckin' doorbell rings.

We snap apart like guilty schoolchildren, Anna's hand half inside my pants, and me, halfway shovin' her dress up over her breasts and _godfuckindammit!_

Why'd I haveta have de worst cock-blockin' friends in de galaxy?!

"I thought ya said _no one_ comes to a party on time, swamp rat!" Rogue levels at me sarcastically.

"Quoi? It ain't _my_ fault our friends don't know they're s'pposed to come fashionably late!"

She grouses a bit to herself, takin' her hands out my pants and snapping her dress back down to her hips, jumpin' off the dresser and searchin' for her panties.

"Oh my Gawd, and my canapés ain't even done yet!" she wails, as she locates the tossed aside underwear and begins to slip them back on.

The doorbell rings again.

It's Bobby. I just _know_ it's fuckin' Bobby.

_Grrrrr!_

"Remy, ya gonna answer that or what?" my loving wife asks me impatiently, and I zip myself up again dolefully, before she breezes past me, tugging her dress back down her thighs, adding:

"On second thoughts, I'll go. Ya got lipstick all over your face, and you miiiight need ta change your shirt."

I look down at myself and see she's ripped at least two of the buttons off my expensive Prada shirt. _Merde._

She's already headin' out the door, and I can't help but throw at her:

"Soooo… how's about an after party, eh, chere? When everyone's gone? Jes' you an' me?"

She stops in the doorway, darts a come-hither look over her shoulder and drawls sexily:

"Well, ya know what they say, sugah. Better late than never. And I'll take late with you over never any day of the week."

She blows me a kiss, just as the bell rings again.

"All right, already, I'm comin'!"

And just like that, my wife's whirled away, leavin' me with the biggest, dumbest grin on my couyon face.

"Ain't never gonna say never wit' us, Anna," I murmur helplessly, as I glance at myself in the mirror, swipin' the cherry-flavoured lipstick from my cheek.

-END-


End file.
